


mine shall still be mine

by adjourn



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, M/M, No MCD, Pre-Canon, a whole lot of philosophizing, but still, contrary to the summary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24754990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: Charles has been with the gang for less than a month when he sees Arthur get fatally shot.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 25
Kudos: 164





	mine shall still be mine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about plot armor, ambiguous soulmates, and destiny.
> 
> Title from Paul Laurence Dunbar's "One Life": https://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/187/lyrics-of-lowly-life/3824/one-life/

Charles has been with the gang for less than a month when he sees Arthur get fatally shot at a gang-occupied ranch in Cholla Springs. One of the bandits, holed up in the second story of the barn, lands a rifle shot straight through Arthur’s skull.

“Shit,” Charles swears, diving back into cover. He looks to Bill, crouched behind the same crates and reloading his revolver. _Click. Click._ “Morgan’s down.”

Bill snorts. _Click. Click._ “No he ain’t. C’mon, keep shootin’.” _Click. Click._ Bill stands up, completely fearless, and fires with a hoot.

“There’s a sniper,” Charles warns, but nonetheless follows suit, blood pumping dumb with adrenaline. He aims his repeater at the nearest man, who’s foolishly snuck a peak around the wagon. Bullet to his neck — it sprays an ugly mess, but it’s a swift death, like Charles prefers.

There are more dead men than live ones now, which certainly was not the case thirty seconds ago. Bill’s a good shot but not that good. Charles kills another man as he's running for the main house, and looks up at the barn window at the sound of a shotgun blast. The sniper’s headless body comes flying out, landing in a gruesome crumple.

Arthur Morgan, jacket soaked black with gore, walks to the opening. His skull is very much intact.

“Where are the rest of you sorry fuckers at,” he drawls, and cocks his shotgun.

The remaining men surrender real quickly after that. 

Of course, Arthur has them shoot the rest anyway, the four bandits trembling on their knees. They leave one alive: the youngest, a boy not a day over twenty, who scowls and spits in Arthur’s face when he approaches.

Arthur smiles, cold. “Mr. Smith, Williamson, search the bodies. I want a private word with this fella.”

They obey. Scour the ranch, flipping over bodies and gutting their pockets like cleaning fish. Charles has one hand in a man’s waistcoat, pulling out a polished silver pocket watch, when Bill asks, boorish and all too loud, “Dutch didn’t tell ya?”

“No,” Charles says. 

“So you really thought Morgan got his brains blown out.” 

“Yes.”

Bill guffaws like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. Maybe for someone who’s been running with the Van der Lindes for years, it is. “Oh, man. If Arthur Morgan meets his end at the hands of some nameless fuckin’ greaser, I’ll eat my boot. What a grand destiny that would be.”

Charles moves onto the next body without replying. For whatever reason, Bill takes this as encouragement.

“Morgan’s not the only one of them, ya know. Marston is, too,” he sneers, unmistakably jealous, “though you wouldn’t think it. He’s a fuckin’ idiot. Don’t know why God chose him.”

“Enough chit-chat.” Arthur stomps over. His knuckles are bloody, but the skin is unbroken, unbruised. Charles can see the beaten form of the boy a few yards behind. Tries to look for movement, then stops himself. Doesn’t know what he’d do anyway, if he saw something.

“Let’s go,” Arthur says, and they go.

.

.

.

There are many names for men like Arthur. Men who stand impervious to wounds or sickness unless the affliction is painted on them by the plans of God, who walk unscathed by the world. Men following a path that they cannot not stray from, like wind-up toys ticking toward a table’s edge. Their fate is set in stone since birth; the rest of life, a mere distraction.

Nowadays, they’re a rare breed, and not discussed amongst civilized folk. No one wants such abominations around them. Dangerous, untouchable. Historically, harbingers of death and chaos.

There are many names for them. Charles just thinks of them as cursed.

.

.

.

“You know,” says Charles, off-handed, while he and John are tuning up a wagon’s wheels, “you sleep a lot.”

John turns sideways to stare at him. “That wasn’t very subtle,” he says.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” 

John grunts and doesn’t say anything more. They continue their work, tightening spokes and greasing the axles. The dry desert climate is both good and bad for the wheels. Charles rubs the excess oil onto his pants, leans back to take some pressure off his hips.

“I’m not like Arthur,” says John, after a very long time has passed. “I’m… less, I think. Or maybe it just isn’t my time yet.”

Charles nods slowly. Absorbs the information, and reflects upon what he knows of Arthur, of John. John sleeps as much as the rest of them. He needs more nutrition than week-old salted meat. He gets nicks and scratches in gunfights, if not bullet wounds; sometimes, he even bleeds. His aim is only _just_ perfect. 

At last, Charles says, “I didn’t know it worked like that.”

John laughs. “You know, me neither. Confuses me, a bit. Confuses Arthur a whole lot.”

It’s difficult to imagine Arthur being confused by anything. On jobs, Arthur is a machine, metal and gunsmoke. Charles hasn’t seen him in many other contexts. This thought must show on his face in some manner because John claps him on the back, friendly, and says: “You’ll see, Charles. Arthur Morgan is as much a fool as the rest of us.”

.

.

.

Dutch has his sights set on Blackwater, a bustling settlement that’s halfway to becoming a proper city. Riches and splendor, Dutch says to the camp, a capitalist monstrosity ready to be picked apart. Charles pays little attention to the speech — he’s with the gang not because he really believes in Dutch’s vision or principles, but rather because he’s tired of sleeping with one eye open at night. Instead, he watches the crowd. Hosea smiling fondly and massaging a crick in his neck. The Callander boys with those bloodthirsty leers. Arthur, standing at Dutch’s side with his arms crossed, listening to every word with immense intensity. A moth drawn to a flame.

When Dutch finishes speaking and the audience disperses, returning to their usual routines, he beckons Charles over. Charles dutifully goes. 

“Mr. Smith, I want you to scout a location for our new home. You’re familiar with West Elizabeth, and I trust your lay of the land,” Dutch says, and pauses. Charles nods to appease him. “Good. Take Arthur with you, in case you run into trouble on the road.”

“Alright. I’m ready to head out when you are, Morgan,” Charles defers. 

“Let’s ride then, Mr. Smith,” says Arthur. He tips his hat to Dutch. “So long.”

Dutch pats him on the shoulder. “Be good, you two.”

They saddle up, horses already packed. Arthur eases back and lets Charles take the lead as they ride, trotting up the ridge that encloses their camp, then quickening their pace to a gallop as the desert unfolds before them. 

The morning passes without trouble. They skirt around Armadillo and slow their pace once they reach Hennigan’s Stead. The land transitions to be less arid, yellow with tall grass instead of dirt. They’ve made good time, so Charles steers them off the road for a short rest.

“Let’s give our horses a break,” Charles says. “There’s a creek to the west. Runs through the lower plains.”

Arthur grunts, noncommittal, but follows.

The horses are glad for the drink and so is Charles. Accustomed as he is to long rides, he’s never particularly enjoyed traversing the desert. He kneels by the stream and splashes his face, shivering as the cool water trickles into his shirt. Arthur bends down beside him and sets his hat aside, intending on doing the same. Without the hat, Charles can see the shine of sweat on Arthur’s brow and the pink of his ears. He looks terribly human. 

“Do I got something on my face, Mr. Smith?” Arthur asks flatly. His jaw is clenched. It makes a tendon flex in his thick neck.

Charles tears his eyes away from that and up to the spot by Arthur’s ear instead. “No.”

Arthur meets his gaze, forcing eye contact. “Then why are you staring at me?” 

“Just looking,” Charles says, keeping his tone low and steady. “I don’t mean any harm by it.”

“Well, stop lookin’. You been gawking at me nonstop since last week, and I ain’t no circus act,” Arthur growls. “Go ogle Marston if you’re so amazed. He likes the attention more than me.”

Charles can’t deny that he’s curious about them. Like most, he’s never met one of these men before, at least not knowingly. His exposure has been limited to tall tales and legends; his mother used to tell him of a great warrior of the Mohawk peoples who fought against the white settlers, single-handedly taking down fortresses and shrugging off canons blows. It was an unbelievable story. Arthur is an unbelievable story. But that’s only part of the reason Charles stares.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says. Best to own up to these things. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Arthur blinks at him, nonplussed. He closes his mouth, swallowing whatever biting remark that he might have had ready. “Well, it’s alright, I guess. Everyone who comes into camp does it at first. Everyone who’s ever known, really.”

“That doesn’t excuse it. I apologize.”

“I said it’s alright, didn’t I?” Seeming somewhat embarrassed, Arthur occupies himself with washing the dirt off his face and neck. He scrubs at his beard: a light layer of scruff, just a few days unshaven. Most of the men keep their facial hair short in the New Austin heat. Charles takes the cue and looks away, combing damp fingers through his hair.

“Honestly, Mr. Smith, you weren’t so bad,” Arthur says. “When Bill joined up, he dogged my heels for days, asking all sorts of irritatin’ questions until I told him to screw off. And Mac challenged me to a fistfight, dumb lout.”

“Some men are envious of what you have.”

“A lot are, in our line of work. Are you one of them?” Arthur casts him a glance. “You wish you were like me?”

“No.” Emboldened by Arthur’s uncharacteristic loquaciousness, Charles asks, “Do you wish you weren’t?”

“That I … weren’t like me?” Arthur exhales sharply. Perhaps no one has asked him this before. Growing up in a gang of outlaws, it wouldn’t be surprising. “I’ve thought about it. Life might be better if I weren’t. It might not. No use wastin’ time on wishes, though.” He says, a bitter twist to his mouth and a lilt to his tone like he’s quoting someone else, “Guess I should be thankful that at least God has a plan for me.”

“You should feel however you feel,” says Charles.

Arthur shakes his head. Doesn’t address it further. “Let’s get back on the road. We’re burning daylight.”

.

.

.

The sun has shunted below the ocean and they’ve ridden up and down half the plains of West Elizabeth when they come across a suitable spot: a grove of trees atop a hill overlooking Blackwater. It’s closer to the town than they usually settle, but there isn’t any heat on the gang right now. The itinerant worker cover should do the trick.

“We should camp here for the night,” Charles says, observing the moon. “It’ll be too dark to ride.”

“Sure.” Arthur finishes marking the location on his map, and then they get to making camp. It’s warm enough that Charles doesn’t bother with putting up his tent. He lays out his bedroll and then helps Arthur collect kindling. Mostly out of habit, they build a fire. It’s unnecessary with such pleasant weather and no fresh meat to cook, but Charles likes watching the flame. Maybe Arthur feels the same.

Charles sits, cross-legged, and unwraps two slabs of salted venison. He offers one to Arthur.

“I’m alright, thanks,” Arthur declines politely. “Ate yesterday.”

He does, however, take the extra cigarettes Charles digs out. They relax until clouds drift over the sliver of moon and the fire burns to mere embers. At some point, Arthur pulls out his journal and slowly flips through the pages, though it’s much too dark for it.

“You get some sleep,” Arthur says without looking up.

Charles nods. “Wake me for the second watch.”

“Sure, sure,” Arthur says dismissively. He hasn’t even put down his bedroll. 

“I’m serious. You look like you could use some sleep.” And surprisingly, he really does. There’s faint bruises below Arthur’s eyes, smudges of exhaustion. Now that Charles is aware of it, he hasn’t seen Arthur sleep since they hit that gang camp more than a week ago.

Arthur concedes, “I’ll take a catnap before dawn.”

It’s the best Charles will get. He wishes Arthur goodnight and tucks into his bedroll. Well-guarded, he slips into an easy and dreamless slumber.

The night passes uninterrupted, and Charles wakes of his own accord after five hours. Arthur is in the exact same position: leaning against a tree with his journal open across his thigh, and his shotgun beside him. 

“Your turn, Morgan,” Charles says, and gets up to leave no room for argument.

They leave after another hour, which makes Arthur grumble about wasted time. There’s no real heat to it, though. Charles actually senses some gratitude when he comments on how long Charles let him sleep.

So begins the ride back to New Austin. By some unspoken agreement, their pace is far more leisurely than yesterday. They stop at the same creek to let the horses drink, lingering longer and dipping their feet in the water. Charles can’t explain why he’s so keen on moving at such a sedate pace, when usually he values efficiency, other than that he wants to spend more time around Arthur. A comet reluctant to leave his orbit. Arthur must find some peace from his companionship, too, for his shoulders are loose and his mouth less grim, and he smokes his cigarette all the way down to his fingers when they take a rest. Or maybe he’s just enjoying the quiet.

They’re nearly to Armadillo when trouble comes knocking. A gang of six riders pulls up. They’re unkempt in appearance: scuffed boots and bullet-torn vests, looking like expert outlaws. They ride out from behind an outcropping of rocks, guns aimed at Arthur and Charles, who stop their horses in the middle of the road.

“Gentlemen,” says the one in front with a golden pistol, “Might we ask who’s passing through our territory?”

“Just some travelers mindin’ their own business,” says Arthur. 

“Hm. I don’t think so. I think you look mighty similar to the fellows who shot up one of our camps four days ago.” The man jerks his pistol upward. “Get off your horses.”

Charles climbs down. Two of the men grab their horse’s reins and lead them off, and Boadicea nickers at the unfamiliar guide. Taima is a trusting girl. Charles’ blood boils when he thinks of how these lowlives might abuse that trust.

“What’s your name?” the man asks Arthur.

“Rabbit Matthews, sir,” Arthur says in a mocking drone.

The man scowls and steps closer. “Don’t get fucking smart. What’s your name? And that redskin friend of yours, too.”

Arthur sighs and rolls his shoulders back. “Was thinkin’ about letting y’all live before you called him that, too.”

He grabs the gun right by the barrel and yanks it out of the man’s hands. It fires, but the shot goes wide. In a split second, Arthur flips the pistol around and draws his own, then shoots three of the men through the head. The one in front of him drops midway through an alarmed cry.

Arthur quickly steps backward to stand in front of Charles, blocking the gunfire with his own body and grunting when the bullets hit. Charles has scarcely drawn a revolver when Arthur fires on the other three; the last of them falls with a gurgle as a bullet rips through his throat.

The entire fight lasted all of five seconds. 

“You alright, Mr. Smith?” Arthur says, unscathed. He scans Charles for any injuries and nods when he finds none, satisfied. “Sorry to get you into this trouble.”

Charles breathes out, his heartbeat calming. “Don’t say sorry for saving my life.”

“Weren’t nothin’.”

“It was. I noticed you get in the way of those bullets for me.” Charles looks at the punctured holes in Arthur’s shirt, where the bullets had torn through the cloth and then simply vanished. “Thank you.”

“S’alright, really. Wouldn’t have hurt me anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” Charles says evenly.

Arthur wrinkles his brow, puzzled. Then he says, “Well, I guess not. But saving your life wouldn’t be such a bad destiny, Mr. Smith.”

“You can call me Charles.”

Arthur ducks his head. “Sure. Call me Arthur, then.”

“Arthur,” he tests the name. He says, “I’ll go get the horses,” and heads over to the horses before he can do anything stupid. The pair spooked but didn’t go far; he leads Taima and Boadicea back to the road. Arthur has finished looting their attackers, and is carefully examining a scrap of paper.

“Thanks,” Arthur says when Charles gives him Boadicea’s reins.

“Of course.” Charles eyes the paper. “What’s that there?”

Arthur smooths it out before showing him. “Map of some kind. Might lead to a stash.”

“Might lead to more angry men.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Arthur says with a small, vicious curl of his lips. In that moment, Charles can see why the Callendars have taken to him so strongly. “You in? There’s plenty of hours left in the day.”

Arthur, sunburnt and sweating, his hat gone lopsided. Shirt sleeves pushed up past his elbows, showing thick forearms with a dusting of blondish hair. He’s just killed six men and his blue eyes are hooded with bloodlust, and he nearly blushed when Charles thanked him for saving his life. 

“I’m in,” Charles says, powerless.

.

.

.

Dutch is pleased when they inform him about the scouted location, and positively triumphant when Arthur also turns over a stack of cash from the strongbox they found. Predictably, it was guarded by a gaggle of men, who forfeited their lives to a hail of shotgun blasts. 

“Excellent work. What a team you two make,” Dutch says proudly. “Mr. Smith, I’m very glad to have you with us. You’re shaping up to be one of our best men.”

Charles inclines his head, deferential. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Why don’t you get some rest while we start packing up? You can lead the caravan with Arthur in the morning,” Dutch instructs. “Arthur, with me.”

Charles accepts the dismissal and heads for the campfire. Yet, he can’t help but glance back: Dutch is rolling down the flap of his tent and Arthur is seated on his bed, blank-faced, biddable as a child.

Frightening, the power a man can have.

Needing something to clear his mind, Charles grabs a block of wood to whittle. He loses himself in this for a while, maybe an hour. The wood reshapes beneath his hands without him putting much thought into it, the beginnings of a sleek-bodied animal. No one bothers him, as they’re all busy stacking provisions or saddling horses for a quick exit in the morning. Normally, Charles would help. But tonight, his hands carve wood, and he thinks about all the things it might become, and all the things it might not.

.

.

.

For a port city, with all its trade ships and strangers running to and fro, Blackwater should seem less quaint, more businesslike and modern like Dutch described. But the townsfolk are as naive as any podunk settlement they’ve visited before, and it makes a weight settle heavy into Charles’ stomach. Dangerous as it was, he thinks that maybe they should have continued to feed off the wretches of the western frontier.

Most of the others don’t share this sentiment. The girls are overjoyed to be closer to society and ample opportunities to pickpocket or con their way into a few dollars; the younger men appreciate access to a proper drinking establishment. Hosea takes to the town like a fish to water and situates himself as a wealthy businessman in search of real estate investments. He has Lenny, posing as his valet, tag along for an extra set of eyes and ears. Eager to please despite his vocal distaste of the place, Arthur follows Hosea’s lead and goes into town often to scout job opportunities. 

It is John that feels and acts the same way as Charles, the proximity to civilization grating on him. He has a near permanent frown on his naturally fearsome face, and it makes him more jackal than man. In some conscious or subconscious act of rebellion, John embraces the muddy savage within him by refusing to shave or bathe, until at last Abigail kicks him out of their tent and tells him to go sleep with the street dogs, if he’s going to act like one.

Charles watches their skirmish with a sympathetic eye. “Marston,” he calls, “want to come hunting with me?”

“Damn right I do,” says John, relieved.

They ride out in amiable silence towards nowhere in particular. Charles has no real intention of hunting, as he returned with a large buck for the chuck wagon just yesterday, and John knows it, too. After a canter across the plains, John slows Old Boy to a stop. 

“Interested in a race?” John offers. “First one to reach Tall Trees?”

“Wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

“My horse isn’t affected by it,” John says, though he seems unsure. It might not be true — Arthur’s horse, in any case, is unnaturally durable and twice as slow to tire as any of the others. 

“Not fair for you, I mean,” says Charles, deadpan, and then kicks Taima into a gallop. John gives an aborted shout and follows.

Southern West Elizabeth is all open fields and easy riding, so Charles doesn’t bother with the road. He crouches down close to Taima’s neck, ushering her faster, aware of Old Boy’s hooves hammering behind. The grand redwoods loom, growing closer and closer, until at last Charles rears Taima to a stop at the edge of the forest. 

John skirts in mere seconds later. “You goddamn cheater,” he complains. But the ride has relaxed him, put a goofy, thrilled grin on his face. 

“I told you it wouldn’t be fair,” Charles says, unrepentant. 

“If we ever race again, you can bet I’m going before the thought even enters your head,” warns John.

“I’ll still win.” Charles clicks his tongue and presses Taima into the woods. “C’mon. Let’s go up a ways.”

“Sure.” John goes without question. He and Charles have formed a camaraderie due to various shared tasks: wagon maintenance, similar guard schedules; in the mornings, once their duty is complete, they share a smoke and watch the sunrise, serene.

It’s a routine Charles aims to simulate now. He leads them north to a rock formation that juts out of the redwoods, overlooking the Great Plains at an impressive elevation. They hitch their horses further back and climb onto the boulders, sitting on a large, flat one that slopes forward into a partial cliff-face. 

“Nice spot,” John says. He unfolds his legs and lets them dangle off the rock, lights a cigarette.

“Mm,” Charles intones. 

Miles and miles of rolling fields. Riders and wagons winding along the roads like clockwork toys. In the distance, Blackwater, with the lake splayed behind it. 

“Charles, you’re pretty strange,” muses John.

Charles directs at him a bland look.

“Sure, I’m strange, too. But I was born to be.” John exhales, smoke coiling. “You just don’t really act like you’re supposed to. Toward us. Me and Arthur,” he adds unnecessarily.

“Didn’t know there were rules for it.”

“You know what I mean. The other men are like tiny dogs, yapping away, got something to prove. And if they aren’t like that, then they’re scared. Like everyone else.” John scowls. “It doesn’t bug me no more, ‘cept a small annoyance, but…” He taps out the ashes of his cigarette, then reconsiders, puts it out altogether. “Nevermind, I guess. Hard to explain.”

Charles catches John’s eye and smiles wryly. “John. I think I understand more than most, what it’s like to have most people fear you for reasons out of your control.”

Self-conscious comprehension dawns on John’s features. “Right,” he mutters. “Forgot people cared about that sort of thing. It ain’t right. Well, you know no one in the gang is like that. Except maybe Bill,” he amends, “but no one takes him seriously.”

“It’s alright. I didn’t mean to make this about me,” Charles says. “I just want you to know that I treat you and Arthur the same as I’d treat any other human being. Except the ones I’m robbing.”

John huffs, amused. “Thanks. Now if only _Arthur_ would do the same to me.”

“Mm. What’s the deal with you two, anyhow?”

John hesitates. He anxiously digs into his pockets for another cigarette. Charles lets the question cool between them, and John eventually picks it up. 

“A while ago, I left the gang for a year. Arthur didn’t take it so well, and he liked it less when I came back. That’s not the real reason, though, I think.” He drops his voice to a murmur. “I think he’s jealous. Of how I have a family, or something, with Abigail and Jack. How the world let me have that.” He shakes his head, vexed or perhaps pitying. “It’s never let Arthur stray far from this life. Never let him keep any bit of peace.”

Charles hums thoughtfully. “Do you think it let you have a family? Or did you decide that?”

John sighs. “I dunno. Sometimes, I think maybe it _made_ me have one. I didn’t… I don’t really want it. Don’t even know if Jack is mine.” He squashes the second cigarette against the boulder. “It should have given them to Arthur.”

Charles doesn’t have anything to say to that, but John doesn’t seem to expect an answer. They sit for a while longer, until the owls sing and the lake gleams with moonlight, and it’s too late to do anything but sleep away from camp and under the stars.

.

.

.

Dutch concocts a plan to rob a wagon that is reportedly carrying a priceless gold statuette. It’s being transported from a New Austin dig site to Blackwater, where it will be shipped to some cathedral in Saint Denis. Wanting a clean job, he assigns Charles and Arthur to the task. 

“Maybe you’ll come back with two gold statues,” Dutch says, and chuckles. He’s begun to think of them as a power duo, sending them out on heists together whenever Arthur can be dragged away from Hosea’s budding real estate scheme. Charles will admit that in the past two months, they have worked exceptionally well together. Cleared the remains of that old gang around Cholla Springs without getting a scratch on him, and brought back piles of jewelry and cash.

The wagon leaves from Armadillo, so they ride out to meet it at Hennigan’s Stead. Arthur tells Charles that their best ambush point is the rocky canyon paths there; if the wagon reaches the Great Plains, the guards will be able to see any riders coming from a mile away. Arthur is always meticulous when planning and explaining a job, careful for the sake of any partners rather than himself. Camp rumors say that when he goes it alone, whether that be robbery or good old fashioned gunslinging, he goes without a single lick of strategy, firing from the hip when needed, a bloody and careless maelstrom. 

Charles thinks that he’d like to see that someday. Now is not that day, though. Dutch wants a good, clean job, and he’ll get one. 

Atop their horses, the pair hide behind a rocky outcropping off the road. Dust floating in the distance is the first sign of their quarry, and the creaking sound of wheels, the second. When the wagon approaches, they pace their horses out and block the path. Three men, as anticipated: a driver, a guard beside him, and additional muscle riding in the back.

“Hold there, fellas,” Arthur calls out. His voice rings across the desert, sonorous even through the black mask. 

The driver, staring down the barrel of Arthur’s shotgun, stops the wagon about thirty feet away. Arthur fires a warning shot inches off the front guard’s left shoulder when his fingers twitch toward his pistol. Wood splinters from the shell’s impact and the man yelps, alarmed. He casts wide eyes at the pair, his freckled nose twitching nervously.

“Don’t try anything stupid like that again,” Arthur growls, “or the next one’s going in your eye. Hands up. All of ya _._ Good. Now, one at a time, step down from the wagon. Trigger-happy, you first.”

The guard awkwardly attempts to shimmy off the wagon, balancing himself against the wheel and the seat by his back. 

“Just jump. It won’t hurt you none,” Arthur barks. “Alright, now approach Mr. S.”

The guard walks slowly toward them. Charles hops off Taima and pats her flank, sending her scurrying to the side. He strides up to the guard and shoves him to his knees, then quickly disarms him and ties his hands behind his back.

“You next, driver,” Arthur orders.

Charles repeats the process with the driver, an equally twitchy man as the guard and with a fuller, twitchier mustache. He has the two kneel off to the side, standing guard while Arthur trots Taima over to the back of the wagon.

“Last but not least,” says Arthur to the final guard, a sour-faced, burly man. “I want you to open that chest there, real slow, and take out whatever’s in there for me.”

Charles observes with his peripheral vision as the guard bends down and unlatches the chest. It seems all will go smoothly, but at the last second, the guard draws his pistol instead of picking up the statue and empties his chamber as he fires at Arthur.

Arthur’s body jerks as the rounds hit dead center in his chest, but no red blooms. He stares at the guard, statuesque. “That’s too bad, son,” he says. “I wanted a bloodless job.” 

“You—!” the guard shrieks, and whips around as if to escape through the front. Charles sees his face go pale with horror before it vanishes, the man’s head bursting in an ugly spray of gore. 

The other two men moan with fear.

“Please don’t kill me, sir,” the driver pleads to Arthur, having pegged him as the leader, “have mercy. I have a wife. Children.”

Arthur brings his horse around to them. He asks: “You lot saw that?”

“We didn’t see nothing,” the guard says all too quickly.

Arthur sighs. “I got it, Mr. S.” He draws his revolver and shoots them both in the head. The bodies flop to the side like dead fish, blood pooling in a gruesome halo.

Charles frowns. “They were innocents.”

“No one’s innocent in our world,” says Arthur, like that’s any sort of answer, and then goes to grab the statuette. 

It’s solid gold and quite hefty, a true treasure, moulded into the image of some womanly saint. The folds of her robe reveal exquisite, hyper-realistic detail, though her eyes stare blank and unseeing. Arthur wipes the blood off it and stashes it in his satchel.

They mount their horses and depart, removing their masks once they’ve ridden a fair distance. Charles thinks about the three bodies they left behind and wonders if they will become carrion, or if some kind traveler will stumble across them and provide a proper burial. He wonders about the driver’s alleged wife and children, and then he thinks of the potential family of the Cholla Springs gang, or the many other men he’s killed. As a rule, Charles tries not to consider these matters too closely — but today is just that kind of day.

His pensive silence spurs Arthur into a defensive mood. “They knew about me,” Arthur says, “and there’s not many men like me ‘round. And everyone knows Dutch has got two of us. Dutch will prefer them dead.”

“You’re right. I’m not judging you. It was the smart move to take.”

However, Charles _is_ judging himself. He didn’t move to defend those men or change the situation. He is equally culpable for their deaths. And what’s more, he can’t get out of his mind the electrifying image of Arthur’s hands on that statuette, his thick, gloved fingers thumbing over blood-speckled gold.

They ride off the road once they reach the plains, and the tension between them dissipates. Not too far from camp, Arthur slows them to a trot. Charles looks at him, questioning.

“Do you believe in God?” Arthur asks. He has one hand on the bulge of his satchel, absently holding the statuette in place.

Charles shakes his head. He doesn’t believe in the Christian God, that’s for sure. “Not really. Do you?”

“How could I not?” 

“Just as easily as you could.”

Arthur laughs at that. “S’pose so. But, well, this thing o’ mine. Lots of people say it’s God. More say it’s the Devil. Truthfully, I guess I really don’t believe there’s some man up there watching over me or judgin’ me, and he certainly ain’t hopin’ the best for me. And there’s no bastard beneath the ground laughing every time I pull the trigger in some man’s face.” He sighs, all the good humor gone. “There’s just… this path, whatever it is. And I’m meant to do all the things I do. I have to believe in that.”

Charles ventures, carefully, “It seems like a terrible faith to have forced on you.”

“Maybe so,” temporizes Arthur, his fingers flexing around the golden saint in his bag. 

.

.

.

Dutch grins, teeth improbably white, when they return. He folds the statuette away into his tent and says he'll return to them with news of a buyer. As he waits, Charles falls back into the gang's rhythm. He and John share smokes in the cool of morning, and they sweat together eating Pearson's grimy stew. Hosea and Dutch have another tug-o'-war fight over Arthur, with Hosea winning this time. It means Arthur hangs around the camp more. He drifts through teasing exchanges with the younger men and hunch-backed dialogues with Mary-Beth like the world is stacked upon his shoulders. At night, though, he inevitably comes to Charles' side by the scout fire. It's as isolated as anywhere in the camp can be, offering some peace as they, at first, quietly sort their rations or mark up bullets. Over the time, the distance from the camp immerses them in a shroud of privacy, and perhaps compelled by the intimacy of it, Arthur offers him the stories of his scars. 

From his father, the cigarette burns on his wrist, faded strips across his back from a belt buckle, drawing blood. The old man loved to test which pains would stick. It wasn’t so bad, Arthur says, because most of them didn’t feel like anything, and the ones that did were supposed to. He was still happy to watch his father die, slowly, bleeding out from a lawman’s bullet.

A knife wound scarred on his shoulder, a vicious stab that he took in Dutch’s stead — the first of many hurts that he would take for Dutch, but the only one thus far that had stayed. The scar on his chin from when little Johnny Marston clawed him across the face, trying to struggle out of Arthur’s grip after they rescued him from the gallows. 

Arthur tells him of Mary, and how he had gotten shot hours after he proposed. She stayed by his sickbed for weeks, weeping, and left for good when he was hale. It was a repositioning. It had not wanted him to stray off his path.

He says, haltingly, there was another time he received a warning. He does not explain further.

.

.

.

A few weeks pass, and Charles forgets about the statuette almost entirely. One day, almost out of the blue, Dutch whisks Charles and Arthur away from camp to finally fence it. He takes them on a trip up north to a small settlement in the East Grizzlies called Crenshaw Hill. It’s less a town than a rest stop for weary travelers, consisting of four buildings scattered in the midst of dense forest: an inn that doubles as a general store, a saloon, and two cabins that house some unknown occupants. The inn doesn’t have room to accommodate the three of them, so Arthur and Charles are assigned to share one.

“Get some rest. We’ll meet the buyer at the saloon come morning,” Dutch says, and leaves them to get settled.

The room is tiny, totaling 100 square feet, if Charles is being generous. It has one double bed with paisley sheets that takes up the majority of the space, and a nightstand with a wilting flower.

“Want to grab a drink?” Charles says.

“You read my mind,” says Arthur.

Though certainly bigger, the saloon isn’t much more impressive. They sit at one of the three rickety tables and nurse a bottle of shitty, off-brand whiskey. The bartender’s already dead asleep again, slumped over the counter.

Arthur coughs after a swig of alcohol and scrunches up his face. “This place is a real shithole.”

“Mm. It’s a blight on these forests,” Charles agrees.

“At least I got decent company.”

Charles raises his glass. “Cheers to that.” The whiskey burns in his throat and feels even worse in his stomach. He grimaces and sets his glass down with more vigor than intended, his arm accidentally knocking over the whiskey bottle. It breaks against the floor, liquid seeping into the stained wood.

“Shit,” Charles swears.

“You drunk already?” Arthur laughs. 

He bends down to clean up the glass and echoes Charles’ swear, sitting up straight and holding his now-bloody hand. For a moment, they just stare at the wound. It’s a jagged incision that runs the course of Arthur’s palm, not visibly deep but nonetheless bleeding sluggishly.

“Would you look at that,” Arthur says, dazed.

Charles shakes himself from his own stupor. “Let me fix it up.”

He grasps Arthur’s hand gently and trickles water from his canteen over the cut, cleaning it, then follows that up with a splash of alcohol. Arthur doesn’t wince, still incredulous at the existence of the wound.

“How long has it been?” Charles asks.

Arthur sucks in one cheek and rubs at his beard with his free hand. A habitual tic when he’s thinking deeply.

“Few years, at least. Got this,” he indicates the tiny scar on his right cheek, “in a bar fight with some fellas. Got mad about it, followed him after. Led us straight to an O’Driscoll camp, where Dutch killed Colm’s brother.” 

“O’Driscolls? I’ve heard of them,” Charles says, applying a poultice to the cut.

“Right, sometimes I forget you ain’t been running with us for long. Couldn’t imagine the gang without you in it now,” Arthur says, smiling a bit. The expression turns regretful, though, with his next words: “We got a long-time feud with the O’Driscolls, and that was mostly the start. Colm came back and killed Dutch’s lady a few months later. Ain’t neither of them forgiven or forgotten since. Bad business.”

Charles deduces, “So that’s why we’re so far south.”

“Yeah. O’Driscolls like to lay up in these mountain parts. Easier for them to hide, the dirty rats.”

Charles secures the bandage around Arthur’s hand, though he doesn’t let go. He turns it over, rubbing his thumb over the notched scars on Arthur’s knuckles. He looks up, eyes dark, as Arthur shivers at the touch.

“What about these?” Charles says quietly.

“They’re from when I first met Dutch,” Arthur says. He wets his lips, involuntary, as Charles slowly strokes his knuckles. “I tried to rob him. He knocked my knife outta my hands, easy, so I thought I’d just use my fists instead. Missed his face and punched the wall, then ended up so confused about it hurtin’ that he had time to draw his gun on me.” He smiles at the memory. “He threatened to shoot me dead, then put away his gun and bought me a hot meal, and the stew burned my tongue. That’s when I knew I was s’posed to join up with him.”

Charles hums. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that maybe it was really warning Arthur to stay away.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You, uh. You got some scars, too. That one by your jaw." Arthur scratches at his own face, mirroring where the old wound is.

Charles shrugs as the memory swims up, hazy. He was young, in his teens or maybe toeing twenty years. So far north, he thought he was safe, relaxed his guard and had a drink alone. Maybe he _had_ looked at that white woman too long, maybe he didn't. Not wanting to get into it, he says, "Some bastard hit me with a bottle. I killed him. Nothing interesting." 

"Interestin' to me," Arthur says, so quietly that Charles thinks he might have misheard. But then Arthur is smiling at him, the curve of his mouth unmistakably tender, "I feel like I told you about my life plenty. I want to learn about you, too."

Charles' neck and ears warm. In that moment, he's very thankful that his skin never betrays him with red flushes. "It's late. Maybe another time," he deflects. He clears his throat and his voice comes out gruffer, “You wanna head back? To our room.”

"Sure," agrees Arthur, though his smile has turned sly, saying: _I'll let you off the hook this time_.

They walk back to the inn, bodies far closer together than normal, shoulders brushing with each step. And if they, after climbing into the bed together, find their limbs tangled in the night -- it’s bitter cold in the mountains. No one can fault them for chasing the extra warmth.

.

.

.

A grey morning slithers in. Dutch, looming in a fur-trim coat the color of charcoal, meets them outside the inn. “Mr. Morgan, Mr. Smith,” he greets, characteristically formal when on a job, “follow me. There shouldn’t be any problems with the transaction, but I want you on your guard anyway.” 

Without the swallowing night shadows, the saloon looks downright decrepit, and the barkeep deathly ill. His sunken eyes loll about like he has no control over them. There’s a few others in the bar: a scowling stranger hunched over an early morning beer, and a pair of men in bowler hats breakfasting at the corner table. 

Dutch strides over to the men and sits across from them. Arthur and Charles follow, hulking golems by his side.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Dutch says, smiling.

The two men smile back. They both have sagging cheeks and aggressive chins that make the expression ugly, disarming.

“Whaddya know,” says the one on the left, “it’s really him.”

“Colm says ‘ello,” says the one on the right, moving to draw his gun. 

“Arthur!” Dutch shouts. Charles and Arthur both go for their revolvers, but Arthur curses and fumbles, his injured hand delaying him, and Charles isn’t much of a quick-draw.

Two shots ring out in quick succession; the O’Driscolls slump dead in their seats. The stranger has stood and shot both in the head. They all turn to him, surprised. 

“Thank you,” says Dutch cautiously. 

The stranger grins, hyena-like and not much prettier than the O’Driscolls, and tips his white cowboy hat. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Van der Linde. Ain’t much of a fan of O’Driscolls myself.”

“And are you a fan of me?” Dutch asks, voice ominous.

“Indeed I am,” says the stranger, swaggering toward them. “The name’s Micah Bell. Nice to meet ya.”

Dutch shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Bell. Should we go speak somewhere more private?” Dutch suggests, glancing at the barkeep, who has watched the events unfold with the same sleepy indifference with which he served Charles and Arthur drinks last night.

“I’d _love_ to,” says Micah.

They gather their horses and ride east away from Crenshaw Hill and O’Driscoll territory, down the mountains. Charles doesn’t trust this Micah as far as he could throw him, and he takes the rear. Eventually, they dismount in the Heartlands. The collection of buildings that comprise Emerald Ranch are spots in the distance.

“So, Mr. Bell, did you know we were going to be there?” Dutch questions, deceptively mild.

“Naw. But I recognized your face the moment you stepped in, and his, too,” Micah nods at Arthur, who’s watching him neutrally, “and I knew those were O’Driscolls. Saw a good opportunity to kill some bastards and get on your good side, and I took it. I’ve been thinkin’ about joining up with a group lately, ya see.”

“Hm. You do seem like a competent sort, Mr. Bell. You’re excellent on the draw, at least,” Dutch says. “I suppose our outfit could use a man like you.”

“I would be honored.” Micah smacks his lips, satisfied. “To be honest, I’ve been following news about you lot for a while. Ever since there was rumors about you having one of these bastards,” he adds, eyeing Arthur hungrily.

Dutch chuckles. “Yes. Mr. Morgan here does tend to attract some attention.” 

“It’s true, then? Big fella here can’t die?” Micah’s leer intensifies.

“Oh, everyone dies. Mr. Morgan is more resilient than the rest of us, though,” Dutch preens. 

“Alrighty, then. We’ll see,” says Micah, then draws his revolver and shoots Arthur in the eye.

Charles’ heart plummets to his stomach before he sees that, like every other round he’s seen fired at Arthur, the bullet has vanished with no effect. Only Micah’s smoking gun is evidence that there was a shot at all. Still, rage surges through Charles, and he grabs Micah and roughly shoves him to his knees, bringing a knife to his pasty neck.

“You want to try that again?” Charles hisses.

Micah laughs and brings his hands up in surrender. 

“Just wanted to see if it was my destiny,” Micah purrs, “to kill Mr. Morgan over there. I guess not.”

“Should we see if it’s my destiny to kill you?” Charles presses the knife into his throat, drawing blood.

“Mr. Smith, that’s enough,” interrupts Dutch. “Let him go.”

Charles looks at him, disbelieving.

“Arthur’s fine. There’s no harm done. If there was, I would have killed him myself,” Dutch says. “Besides, Mr. Bell here isn’t going to do that again, is he?”

Micah grins. “No, sir.”

“Let him go, Mr. Smith. Now,” Dutch commands when Charles just sinks the knife in a little deeper. One easy movement, and this bastard would be dead. Charles’ knuckles go white with fury, gripping the knife.

“Charles. S’alright,” Arthur says. It’s the first he’s spoken all day.

Charles reluctantly holsters his knife and steps back. Micah gets to his feet, still laughing a bit.

“Nice pet savage you got there, Mr. Morgan,” Micah jeers.

Arthur puts a placating hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Mr. Bell,” Arthur says, “I would advise you to quit talkin’ before Mr. Smith here decides to cut out your tongue.”

“Well put, Mr. Morgan.” Dutch tilts his head to the side, considering. “Watch your mouth and mount up, Mr. Bell. We’ll ride together and discuss your potential membership. You two ride back separately.” He casts a stern look at Charles. “I want you to be nice and friendly when you come back to camp.”

Charles nods tersely, which is enough to content Dutch. He steps up onto The Count, perfectly poised, and Micah follows on his moody black horse. Charles watches them ride away until they’re out of range of his bow and arrow.

“You alright?” Arthur asks.

“That man shot you in the head,” says Charles.

Arthur fishes out a cigarette. “That happens a lot,” he says. He lights the tobacco and inhales slowly, entirely unaffected. Charles, however, is still seething. His blood drums wrathfully in his veins.

“I should have killed him,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Naw. He was meant to join us. Meant to save Dutch,” Arthur holds up his injured hand, which prevented him from drawing his gun properly, “back in that saloon.”

“And if he was meant to kill you?”

Arthur shrugs. Looks over at the rolling hills, the sun shining overhead. “Then I woulda died on a real beautiful day.”

Charles thinks, maybe, that he should walk away and forget he ever knew this man. Let this tenuous, hopeful connection between them wither and die. Let Arthur live as he always has, faithfully suffering and waiting for the world to kill him, accepting damnation without so much as a blink. That would be terribly wise. 

Charles says, “Fuck you, Arthur,” and pulls Arthur in by the waist, and kisses him.

Arthur starts, surprised, but then kisses back with vigor, molding his body against Charles’, warm and firm from hip to chest, together. And then it’s just them in the yawning green fields of the Heartlands, the whole world miles away.

.

.

.

.

.

.

In the days before the ferry job, before a girl is shot dead and the ocean glisters flame-red, before everything — Arthur asks Charles, again, about destiny.

It is not a question he has posed in months, not even in the many blissful hours they’ve spent alone since that night after Crenshaw Hill. But recently, there has been a strange atmosphere about, turning the days shorter and their time together unsubstantial. 

Charles feels it. The thunderous current of spilled blood to come. So he is not surprised when Arthur asks, “Do you think it made you feel this way ‘bout me?”

Charles has sometimes thought to himself: _It’s possible_. Mostly, he’s thought: _I don’t give a damn._ He says as much. He says, “If it has, I’ll feel this way forever. If it hasn’t, I’ll feel the same. I’m with you until the end, Arthur Morgan.”

And so, Blackwater burns, and Charles stays. He stays through blood and death and all.


End file.
